


Digestif

by MadameHardy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Horror, M/M, Nobody Dies, Porn Without Plot, Skullfucking, also without textual or ethical justification, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameHardy/pseuds/MadameHardy
Summary: Dirk Strider is open to any perversion, and he does mean "open" literally.  Set in oxfordroulette's Catacombs AU, which I commend to your attention.   Start with "Sepulcrum Romanum" for the complete experience, skip to "Vanitas Vanitatum" if you're here for the JohnDirk.In this AU, Dirk has portals into the Void for eyes.  Go with it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxfordRoulette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordRoulette/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Vanitas vanitatum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989412) by [oxfordRoulette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxfordRoulette/pseuds/oxfordRoulette). 



You sit at the kitchen table, swaddled in the afterglow of three servings of what John told you was cassoulet. It was warm and rich, full of savory mouth-melting beans, topped with a crisp herb-flecked crust, studded with nuggets of roast lamb, pork sausage, and goose confit. Each mouthful was slightly different, and any one of the components would have made an excellent meal by itself. At this moment, you feel that you could tear down a tree with your bare hands, because using the Unbreakable Katana would just be cheating. There was a red wine that you are confident cost a year's worth of your previous and current salary, but that you noticed only as a means to wash down each umami-laden bite. (John explained umami some months ago, with a brief detour into osmazôme. John reads many cookbooks. You have no idea where he finds the time, unless the alpha John is the one who reads, discarding all other Johns after they brief him. You would find this thought depressing, if it weren't that John clearly remembers fucking you first-hand. Or first-hand fucking you, depending on how you look at it. Alpha John, rich in memories of cookbooks and clerks.)

In your previous life, you considered eating an unavoidable prerequisite to maintaining your body in sufficient condition to slice an assassin into five chunks before the first hit the ground. (Seven on a good day. Nine on a great day. You keep notes.) At present, food is frequently the best part of your day, depending on whether the day also featured sex and/or an unusually taxing fight. Occasionally both. Sometimes all three. You have never needed to keep notes about that.

"... but anyway, the envoy said that Meenah was going to skullfuck me, and I couldn't help laughing because how impossible would that be? I mean, unless I was dead. Um, permanently."

"You'd be surprised."

"Gross."

"Like sex."

"Making love isn't gross."

You would roll your eyes but for the double handicaps of (1) blindfold and (2) absence of necessary musculature. You compensate by dropping the left corner of your mouth a millimeter. "Fucking requires the exchange of at least one and frequently multiple body fluids. Body fluids that must then be removed from the body and immediate surroundings to avoid total squalor."

John rolls his eyes, taking shameless advantage of his natural endowments, specifically musculature, corneas, and lambent blue irises. "You and your bath thing!"

You refuse to take the distraction gambit. "In any case, skullfucking is certainly an option."

John flinches a little. "You want to fuck my skull?"

"You don't have the orifices. I, however, do."

"Dirk, oral sex doesn't count!"

You allow yourself another millimeter's downturn. "Oral sex isn't sex?"

"Oral sex isn't skullfucking!"

Back to the point. "You may remember that, unlike "normal" human beings, I have seven holes in my head."

John looks confused. "Seven?"

"Mouth, nostrils, arguably ears, and eyes. I don't recommend nostrils or ears for obvious reasons of scale. Eyes, however..."

"Dirk, that's ..." He trails off, considering. "That would be weird, Dirk."

There's a flush on his cheekbones. "Weird but erotic?"

John wails, "I wouldn't even **fit**."

"Void, John. Void. Contemplate Roxy."

"Have you done this before?"

"Never had the urge. You, however, appear to."

The flush now extends from the top of his forehead to the skin visible through the open neck of his shirt. "Uh..." 

You stand. "Come along, John. I'll try anything once, and, judging by the look on your face, so will you."


	2. Bonbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voyage into the fathomless Void. With porn.

John is uncharacteristically silent as you take the short walk down the hall together. The door plate flashes blue at your touch; you push the door open and walk into his austere white room. When you turn back to John, he seems a great deal less than at ease. "Dirk, are you sure?"

You were born sure. Experience has only made you more so. You reply by unbuttoning your top button—today's mess jacket has four vertical columns of thirteen buttons, no doubt in honor of something or other; fortunately, most are purely ornamental—"Whatever you want, I will give you." You mean it.

"But what if it hurts you?" He's worried. How sweet. 

"I can tell you, based on considerable experimentation, that I won't even feel it."

Judging by the look on his face, he can't decide whether to be aroused or horrified. Try both, John. It's fun. " _Considerable experimentation?_ "

"Naturally."

"With your _dick_?"

You fail to disabuse him of this flattering take on your flexibility and natural endowment. "John, we have discussed this many times. There are multiple intriguing and fulfilling sexual experiences one can enjoy without the involvement of dicks."

The acceleration of his breathing. The smell of his groin when he's aroused. The unintentional hot winds that swirl around him when he's desperately aroused. The choked cry he releases when he comes. You say none of this aloud. "The experience is reward enough."

John sniggers. "Your _bucket_ list?"

Enough of this. "Pants. Off."

He pulls his fly open instead. His cock pops out. Hello, old friend. Welcome aboard. Mind the orbits.

You can't lie to yourself. Fine, you can't lie to yourself about this particular situation: the opportunity to experience a perversion that you've never tried, never in fact contemplated trying outside the confines of your own head. As it were. Your boner is threatening to burst through your elaborately-tailored breeches and flaunt its victory over the petty restraints of fabric. You drop to your knees on the pale wooden floor, the movement pressing your dick harder into your belly. And you remove your blindfold.

Before you can lean in, John cups your jaw, forces your face up to meet his beautiful worried eyes. "You're _sure_."

You reply by running your finger under your eye, collecting a dollop of Void on your fingertip, and stroking it slowly, slowly, from his taint, up the seam on his scrotum, along the bottom of his dick, pausing just before his frenulum. John throws his head back and whimpers in the back of his throat. Your reply appears to have been satisfactory. You repeat the action, moving more slowly this time, adding a slight undulation to the charcoal stroke of goo, then a sudden oscillation at the head. He strokes his fingers through your hair, gently.

If he's still capable of being gentle, you need to up your game. You take a moment to expand the hole in your right eye where your pupil isn't. Not a skill you ever required as far as vision was concerned, but sometimes a man has time on his hands and the spirit of scientific inquiry on his mind. You reach out your right hand, grab John's rigid dick just under the balls, lean forward, and guide him into your right eye.

It's interesting. The very tip of his dick isn't quite as big as a soul, but it's bigger than a finger. You take a moment to swirl his dick around in the opening, sliding it through Void. Another whimper. Good. 

Then you close your left eye and lean in further. You can feel the rim of your muscle resist a little, then his dick slips easily inward. The sensation is odd. That's all you can really say about it, odd. There's friction at the rim, a brush along your eyelashes as he presses farther in, but that's all the physical sensation you get. Not a problem. Your brain is delighted to make up the deficit. 

John, on the other hand, seems to be getting plenty of physical sensation; he's gasping and thrusting. His hand on your hair has tightened; not a desperate grip, but not a gentle caress, either. "Dirk ... Dirk"—good—"this is weird." 

Not so good. You freeze.

"Sexy weird or 'get me out of here' weird." 

You can hear him gulp air above you. "Uh ... kind of ... kind of I want more but I shouldn't."

"As I said earlier, you can have anything you want."

"But—"

"—No persons, trolls, intelligent beings, or horses are being harmed by this action. It's just you, me, and your dick. What's your dick's opinion on this." You contract your muscles move your head a few millimeters back, then forward. You flutter your eyelashes a bit.

In a strangled voice, John says "Fuck. Do that again."

Sounds like consent to you. You obey. Whatever sensation he's getting, it's working for him, Just to be sure, you squeeze his balls gently and reach your left hand over to finger his rim. He bucks forward. Excellent. Your nose pushes into his coarse hair and you inhale the warm smell of his body. By some feat of biology, he always smells a little like apricot, which has made subsequent public encounters with pálinka somewhat challenging.

He has both hands in your hair now, tugging you forward. Excellent. Time to burn him down to the foundations. You tighten your muscles as much as you can, pull back, push forward, and rub at his hole; the apricot smell increases. He's gasping at every stroke. You push your finger a little deeper, pull faster, contract harder, and he yanks at your head, bucks forward, gives you that desperate cry that you love so much, and freezes. You can't feel what's happening, but you're confident that it's good.

He releases your hair, so you lean back. John is breathing heavily. He looks down at you. "Are you okay?"

"Never better." In point of fact, you could do hands-free pushups using your dick. You wipe the back of your hand across your eye to collect excess fluid.

"I just came in your eye!"

"John, I routinely shove _souls_ into my eyes. They can handle a little extra fluid." The Void will probably enjoy the snack.

John looks down at you with awe. Damn right, you are awesome. 

"Dirk, you are ... great. Really great! The best!" He laughs. "Weird and great. Great and weird. Weirdgreat!"

"Needs workshopping."

John slaps your cheek, too lightly. You can't help leaning in, but you do manage to keep yourself from begging for more. "Never mind that, Dirk, you are the best! You are amazing, and weird, and I think I need to show you how much I love you."

Deadpan, you monotone, "Still one socket left." 

He yanks hard on your head. "Get up here."

You do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to OtherCat, who cast aside her morals and did a SPAG check. Everything else is entirely my fault.
> 
> Osmazôme: What [French scientists of the early 19th century](http://www.theoldfoodie.com/2008/05/important-flavour.html) called the flavor we now know as umami.
> 
> Pálinka: A superb Hungarian apricot brandy/eau-de-vie. Created by distilling apricot wine, not by adding apricot flavoring to brandy. 
> 
> I had a college boyfriend who did smell a little like apricot, and it wasn't cologne. Biology, man.

**Author's Note:**

> Provoked -- I dare not say inspired -- by conversations on Tumblr.


End file.
